The acrid scent of sulfur hit me, mixed with the chemical bite of formalin. It coated the back of my throat, bitter and sharp.
A dull boom rattled the end of the corridor, followed by a wet hiss—like flesh and plastic melting under intense heat.
My pulse quickened. I walked toward the source.
The lab door was ajar. Orange light flickered through the gap, thick black smoke curling into the hallway. The main alarm must have malfunctioned; aside from the local buzzer, the building was silent.
No one else knew.
I peered through the observation window.
There he was. Derek Finch.
His right leg was pinned beneath a collapsed steel rack, his pristine white lab coat scorched black. He must have sensed my presence because his head snapped up, panic warring with recognition.
Then he did something unexpected. He shook his head frantically, waving me off. Don't come in.
I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall.
The confusion cleared instantly.
He had been reborn too.
That was the only explanation. The old Derek would have been screaming for help by now. But this Derek was telling me to leave.